Puncture Wounds II - More Nightmares

This collection of poems includes themes about very real monsters in the world, metaphorically speaking. The ideas about vampires are that they are without a soul and thus have no conscience, remorse, empathy or compassion. I mention this because this theme was explored in a collection that was published with another poet named Scott Urban who also wrote poems about the macabre. That book was called "Puncture Wounds." I lost track of Scott Urban but had more to write on this topic.

This book is inspired by actually experiences that I have had. I have spent time in the same room with evil wearing the appearance of being a normal person. I could not have known when I first wrote poems Puncture Wounds that a psychopath would rise to power in the US. There is a parallel between the evil person I once knew and that person who rises to power in the US.

As a clinical social worker, I didn't expect psychopaths or narcissists to come in for therapy and so I was not educated on such people, nor had I studied them until I met someone who met that profile or those characteristics. I then felt obligated to study such things for my own safety and to not miss the signs in the future. I also didn't want it to take a long time to see a psychopath for what they are.

Amanda's Eyes

"Of course she's a vampire"
my friend warned me.
"Haven't you noticed
how she has used you
to feed her craving -
her addiction?"

Why didn't I notice
when she first turned my way
that nothing behind her eyes
had ever known love,
joy, sympathy, affection?

She must have had
the song of the siren
in her voice
a certain magnetism
within her gaze.

What a fool I was
to believe otherwise.

"Isn't she even cold
to the touch?"
my friend asked.

I don't know how I got away,
how I broke free
of the trance...

I was startled to see her
picture in the paper
the other day
— only her eyes.
I didn't think you could photograph
the undead.

Mirage

I spoke to you
as if you were there.
That was the mistake -
not hope,
not weakness,
but an optical illusion.

You looked like people.
You sounded like family.
Every conversation shimmered
just enough
to keep me walking forward.

I was afraid
to get too close.

I was drawn
to the mirage
by heat,
seeking water
to quench a thirst.

I understand it now.

That’s why I returned
to the serpentarium
in Wilmington.

I placed my hand
against the glass
an inch from the flickering
tongue of a rattlesnake.

I’ve watched your face transform
into this form.

I approach the large glass
enclosure
a cobra rises
I watched your neck
expand -
trying to frighten me.

I don't flinch.

no rising pulse.

Spit -
as if you could help it.

Those closest to you
learned to move that way.

I know where you are.

Goodbye, mother,
I mean Kathy.
Goodbye, father,
I mean Bruce.
Goodbye, sister.
Goodbye Carrie.

You don’t need titles anymore.
Titles belong to things that hold
meaning.

You are contained,
I know where you are
finally located. I understand
why I was drawn here…
to see that I did
not
have to
be afraid.

Phobia

Mother
Your greatest gift to me
was the opportunity
to escape your
constant indifference…

I can only imagine
my arrival
when I slithered
out of your womb
into a cold room.

Surely,
at that very first look
into your eyes
I saw nothing -
a great abyss
a place without
love or affection.

Yet I was seduced
and drawn to seek
something instinctual that must
have existed within
everyone.

What was it
that kept me looking
for something
anything to appear
behind those eyes?

One day I let down my guard.
I let my hand rest within striking distance.
At your touch, I recoiled-
before the thought
could form

Your face
became that of the rattlesnake.

I still visit the Serpentarium
I still stare
and stare at this snake and that snake...
as if enchanted.

Behind the glass
Your tongue flickers
tasting the space between us.

My hand rests
against the glass
tracing your movements
safe from your fangs
or any poison you might spit